


Life Is A Fear

by coefore



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, rape mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coefore/pseuds/coefore
Summary: I hold my gun like a doll, its metallic body on my chest with my fingers tangled on it. The fire crackles. I stare at the black sky and I wonder if I’m really on Neptune. Maybe when I’m back on Earth it will be better.
 Big Boss was a child, once.





	1. Hiding, But Nobody Missed You

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sEa77Hxkk5A  
> Life is a fear.
> 
> The beginning part is very much taken from the - now scraped - official biography for him.
> 
> Edit: chose to go on M rating just to be sure. I still have no idea how to juggle the ratings, I apologise.  
> Edit2: There are some scenes that might be interpreted as leaning on "romantic feelings" between Jack and The Boss. Please, don't read them with those undertones. I never meant them to be that way. Thank you.

The first time I saw a dead body I was barely six years old.

I don’t remember my grandfather’s face, I don’t remember anyone’s face anymore; but his stiff body laid on the ground of our muddy house. I have no memory of whatever had happened to him, except blood spilled out from his body after a gunshot.

I remember the American soldiers threatening my father, whose face is blank, a white slate of nothing as my mind doesn’t want to recollect anything from this long lost past.

A woman, maybe my grandmother, maybe my mother, picks me up and turns my head away and she whispers into my ear, _don’t be afraid_.

1941

\--

It was warm where I lived. O’ahu. I’ve always loved warm places, near the sea where your eyes can wonder the horizon. Wonder how you’re alive, wonder why you’re alive.

And as I was picking up seashells, my ankles and feet in the calm ocean water, a figure shouts at me. I don’t know. I don’t know who that was. They came to me and swept me up in their arms. They were crying, taking me away from the shore. I heard a rushed Japanese, some words I know still. _They’re coming_.

My eyes were on my seashells, lying on the shore. The water covering them while I was getting further away.

_Don’t be afraid._

The radio was talking about Pearl Harbour. At the time, I didn’t really care. I was upset I couldn’t take my shells with me and I had to be held like a doll, for dear life. It was unnerving, English and Japanese mixing in the room and my six year old brain was just lamenting the lack of freedom from this person’s arms.

The radio repeats in Japanese, over and over,

_They are coming,_

_They are coming._

\--

One year later, I was still on the shore, but I was wearing shoes and I was crying. I think I was hiding. I was found by a soldier, American. He turned me around and asked for my name. _John_ , I said with a broken voice. _John_ , he repeated. I shouted _where’s my mom?_

The soldier didn’t seem vicious in his concerned frown, as he held out a hand to take mine.

_Your parents are never coming back._

I grip to the soldier’s hand and I don’t understand. They took them away and left me alone. My young mind roams the places only a child could, _did they dislike me? Did I do something wrong?_

And I think now, remembering pieces of a childhood that never existed, no, you didn’t do anything wrong, child. But war is close.

You will suffer its consequences.

\--

The Ocean is still here, in my heart, my Ocean. But the one I fly over is different, it’s unfamiliar and grim. The military aircraft is noisy; the mechanic sound of gears and engines resonate throughout the insides of the vehicle, while children like me sit quietly on their seats.

And they hold guns.

And I hold my breath.

We’re going to Neptune, they said. We are going.

We are the soldiers of this war now; we have no families to mourn our death at home. Nobody will leave flowers on our graves, for we are alone and always will be, on this desolated world devastated by war.

I stare down at the gun on my lap, held by a hand too tiny to wrap the whole handle correctly. The training I’ve been enduring for three years taught me how to grip it firmly, to face the enemy and shoot. To picture them as monsters, as evil doers. Inhuman people unworthy to walk among us.

Our trainers yelling at us to straighten up our stance, making us unload and load the firearms again, and again; teaching us how to hold a rifle, a machine gun. The smell of gunpowder, the air of frantic orders shouted to kids. The memory of the seashells seems so distant and foggy. I can masterfully shoot dummies in the head, because that’s what I’ve been doing for so long. They praise me. _Look at John, do as he does_.

So they took the best of us and sent them to Neptune.

The captain’s voice roars from the speakers while we prepare to land. Some children start to sob.

 

I stare at my hands.

 

I see my grandfather’s corpse on the ground.

My hands cling to my gun in hope that it will protect me, that it will defend me from this mess.

I’m so scared.

\--

Neptune is bleak and grey.

They speak French on Neptune. They’ve taught us some, just so that we can understand when someone screams a desperate _dodge, attack, duck_. It’s early June but it feels like the deepest of winter.

From my hiding spot, I lift my head and the scene before my eyes makes me understand that there is no going back. That war is in me now. That war is me.

 

I’m a gun.

 

My gun is me.

 

I see countless men dead on the ground. I see children I had just spoken to yesterday, crying for help or slowly dying while lying against a crumbling house’s wall. Their uniforms bleached out of colour, the 442nd Infantry Regiment symbol hidden by the blood and dust covering their clothes.

I’m terrified.

I duck down again while all around me are explosions and rattling of guns, fading yelps. So many languages. My hands go to my mouth to avoid puking but I do anyway; it’s disgusting but I can’t help it. I am shaking when I reach for my gun. It’s loaded and I’m so scared. One of the older soldiers harshly pulls me up from my back and drags me along with five other adults. He places me down, behind a barricade made of sacks and instructs me to shoot at the enemy infantry from this hidden location. He places a silencer on my gun and puts it back in my hands. They leave, after telling me this is important. I have to headshot these people, because I’m good at it. I have to kill, because I’m good at shooting dummies.

I point the gun with my extremely shaky hands and I point it to a man’s head. I shoot and I miss, because I am a boy and I am nine years old; I am a boy and I didn’t want to see my first kill. But the gun is silent and no one notices my erratic movements behind the cover. I feel safe in the shadows, where no one can see me.

I gather the strength to stare at the man.

I gather the strength to witness him fall, his own legs betrayed by his weight. I feel nauseated. I feel empowered. I feel like my insides are thrusting to burst outside. I feel unstoppable. One of his companions notices the abrupt fall of the soldier and I shoot him too in the head. Because I’m good at shooting dummies. They fall like such, one after the other.

Even when they notice me, it’s too late. I’ve changed the clip and I shoot the man, face in front of mine. I see him leaving this earth. I see him passing with a hole in his skull. This quickly became a natural gesture. Stare at the people you give death to; stare at their soul and their demise.

 

My hands aren’t shaking anymore.

\--

As they make us regroup to check the survivors, I look upon medics gathering around a soldier. It’s a woman and she’s hurt, shot in the head from what I can understand by her figure lying hard on the ground. I can only see her back.

They rush us away.

\--

War never ends. I mend my own injuries, just like they had taught me. Sewing in my own flesh, painful just the same as a javelin in your back. Piecing myself together, trying to put back whatever is left of me after days, all days, of sneaking out of the reaper’s bony hands. I wish my skin could evaporate in the August warmth, take me away to somewhere nice. Soldiers around me smoke or play cards, during the weird truce of the night.

I shake when I’m lying down, the adults telling me to rest. It will be over soon; you’ll be home soon.

_Home to who?_

_What’s my home?_

_Where is it?_

I hold my gun like a doll, its metallic body on my chest with my fingers tangled on it. The fire crackles. I stare at the black sky and I wonder if I’m really on Neptune. Maybe when I’m back on Earth it will be better.

\--                            

I survive the Second World War. These ten years of my life feel heavy on my shoulders while our whole squadron gathers around the radio, listening to the Japanese emperor surrender. They are overjoyed, the fight is over. The fight is over.

One day while we were cleaning rifles together, I was told by a boy that I don’t smile often. _Why do you smile_ , I ask. The boy grins back and tells me he wants to greet death with a shining face. I feel like we are twisted, shorter adults, acting high and mighty to look invincible in front of others, in front of ourselves.

 

But today, the war is over.

 

I smile while some older kids had already stolen some beers from the grown-ups, drinking in the ecstasy of the victory.

Today, I smile.

Today, I have hope.

\--

It was hard being half something. The government had killed my parents and the other soldiers would use slurs for me, even though I had blue eyes. I have nothing of my heritage left, but whatever I could grasp onto the United States took it away from me. Whenever soldiers try to mock me, slapping my head, ordering me around just because I am twelve, it infuriates me. It drives me crazy. To them, I just lost the war. I should be grateful of their pity. Their benevolence.

I’ve spent days in the brig because I snapped and hit an adult soldier in the guts. But he broke my arm, and I crumbled down on the grass. Because I bit someone’s arm like a rabid dog. Because some of these adults were afraid of my face, when my blue eyes scanned their innermost depths, uttering curses and threats as if I was talking about children’s games. The weird sparkle of excitement set these men off like explosives, fearing I was actually able to perform my own words into action; they knew I was the best soldier, even above the teenagers and the young cadets. I could shoot dummies, I could shoot people and with the same stone cold face, I could make them face God itself.

War reverberates in me. The violence of everyday is natural, is normal, it’s my life. The insults and the training; the never-ending feeling of doom above you. Your only escape being killing, seeing your opponents fall like pebbles in a pond. Guns are my best friends because they protect me from this all. I know them, how to handle their shiny barrels and insert the clips. They don’t betray me, they never argue, they’re not like people.

People are-

People are hard to understand. The men surrounding me, the children I talk to, they’re far away from my comprehension. They’re puzzles missing a piece. When they praise me because of my skills, I don’t know how to feel. I feel embarrassed, I don’t reply. I go back to my guns.

One of the kids sharing the wide, grey bunk room with me, among ten others, would look at my bed and see nothing. I didn’t read anything. I didn’t collect pictures or hide pretty ladies in small prints under the mattress. He would say, _that’s why you’re so good. You’re so focused, all the time_.

\--

Inside my uncomfortable, hard bed, I look at the ceiling and remember Neptune’s sky. I know it was France and I think I was silly for believing it was another planet. During the night, I feel a deep, gaping hole in me. I feel sad and alone. I cannot connect with other people; when I do, it is just to fight, just to kill.

I slide my hands across my chest and cling them to my shoulders, closing my eyes. I hear the other boys snore, while my mind imagines a hug wrapping around my body. My shoulders knit closer and I turn on my side, feeling tears strolling down from my eyes.

They told me I am going to Korea. I open my eyes again, the darkness makes me dizzy and I start to shake, as I grimace to keep the tears and moans inside. I am fourteen.

I don’t want to go.

I am scared, just like I was on Neptune.

I don’t want to go.

Even though now I have big enough hands to hold a gun right.

I don’t want to go.

I will be fifteen soon and I am so scared.


	2. You may emerge from this more dead than alive

The clock in the waiting room is the only sound I register. My eyes are tiredly looking down at the box lying on my lap; it should contain my belongings but in reality, it’s just a bunch of ruined clothes and a book about firearms labelled 1949. I let out a rough cough.

I feel exhausted.

My face is sprinkled with small scars; my body suffered a big one on my right thigh. My hair is now short. Extremely short.

I have dull eyes and all senses are gone, lost.

I am waiting for some superior to come in and tell me what my next war will be. Whose hands will be the ones that will end my life. A wishful thought. I bob my head down, while a secretary’s pen scratches the paper in a very rhythmic pace, from behind the wood and glass separating us.

It’s January 1951.

I was sent back to the United States after serving in the Korean War. They excused my leave because of my leg wound; they didn’t want to lose such a perfect soldier. I don’t see myself as such. I am not perfect. I am far from it.

Before being sent to Korea, my body was starting to change and I grew bigger, a little taller. I didn’t like it. My body should have been strong but slim, fit but quick. I wanted to wriggle through my enemies and kill without them noticing. I wanted to feel their squirms of pain between my hands, mercilessly freeing them from this nightmare. I was told it was better to think it that way. You were being kind, letting them go silently and quickly. But my body decided for itself and there was nothing I could do about it.

Korea taught me I am not invincible. Korea taught me my mind could collapse on itself. The sense of losing yourself as the days go on and the bombs roars. And the people die. And your hands shake again, oh God, how they shake. You cannot stare at the enemy anymore and you hate yourself for that. Somewhere, deep down, fear starts climbing out, her pointy nails in your flesh. The trenches, people on fire, aircrafts in the sky.

That’s how they found me. Lying face up, sunken in a trench. My dead eyes staring somewhere into the deep and uncaring infinity, while my leg was bleeding profusely. A grenade exploded near me, I was lucky I was still all in one piece. Inside my head noise of radios, programs the other men would listen to at night, and they mixed together with orders, people talking, other soldiers laughing. It’s a messy, distant noise. Everything was a messy, distant noise. I was a messy, distant memory of myself.

I just kept staring at the sky.

In that moment, I hoped I would die. I hoped for the dust in my mouth to fill my lungs and stop my breathing. I hoped my blood would flow out and leave me just this one sight, a silent, grey sky above me. I hoped that would be it. I felt powerless. No gun in my hand to protect me, this time.

Just the hollow shell of my young body, drifting away.

I shake myself from the numbness with a harsh movement, as I hear the creak of the door opening. The general enters the room, solemn, with his second and third in command. He orders me to follow them.

_From today, your life will change_ , he states. _You might be chosen, today_.

My head hurts and I don’t care. I am restless. They escort me to a field outside; the units are training, some get their orders straight, others are working out. They make me line up with ten other soldiers, and I place my box behind myself, just like everyone else had done. I stand still, glancing at the men surrounding me and I think I might have been the youngest out there.

Two more soldiers join the line. We all wait.

Wait, for what or who, we don’t know.

The Major General comes into the picture and explains aloud that today one of us would be chosen for a special training, under an extraordinary supervision.

_The Boss_.

My eyes drop down to my boots as I hear footsteps approaching. Confident, heavy and imposing footsteps. The Boss’ eyes roam among everybody’s upright bodies; I feel it. They’re searching. The Boss moves towards me, the Major General’s voice echoing again in the field.

_These are the new recruits we picked for you. Choose as you wish_ , he almost reverently explains. 

_They just came back from Korea, highly skilled soldiers._

The footsteps stop in front of me. I hear her voice for the first time.

“How old is he?”

I lift up my head, I didn’t think women were in the military too – besides desk jobs. I knew they were, of course, but they surely weren’t the norm, especially as soldiers. Her face was stern, serious. Frightening. She wore her light blond hair short a little over her shoulders, a single long lock of hair on her forehead had escaped the neatly pushed back style. A mole under her right eye had you stare at her whole complexion, with strong cheekbones and deep blue eyes. I couldn’t hold that look. I couldn’t hold those eyes.

“Oh, him? He turns fifteen this year.”

The man doesn’t have the time to properly finish his sentence as The Boss moves two steps towards me.

“Face me.”

She orders.

She is different. She is something different, different from any other shouting commander I had in my life. I fail to look up.

She repeats her order, shouting it.

“Face me.”

I move my eyes up and her gaze runs right through me. Her strong figure shadows me. I feel small. My skin creeps up.

“Tell me your name.” She demands as my throat goes dry but I manage to spit out a _John_ , pushing myself to look at her eyes once more. There was something in her that was otherworldly.

My brows were knit in a challenging stare, as if I wanted to test this puzzling woman. I learnt, that day, I was really just a boy to her.

I would always be just a boy to her.

She frowned in response and that scared me. That took me aback; I had never feared someone else’s look, someone else’s stance. However, as she moved another two steps towards me, I felt like my body screamed at me to jolt back. To run away and hide. Instinct.

Yet, I stood there, holding the stare. She was so close I could move a hand and touch her but they were shaky. _Don’t be afraid_.

The Boss lifts her chin up, just a little, a pensive look pictured on her face. She turns around.

_I made my choice._

\--

My name is Jack now. She said I should throw my old self away, start anew. I will call her Boss and only Boss. I walk behind her, she is fast and I am trying to keep up.

This is new.

She is unreachable.

We will go to a base set in an island of American property. I will endure a special training with her, but, of course, on the base there will be other people, other soldiers. I will pass most of my waking hours with her, though.

I am embarked on a chopper and she sits in front of me. _We’ll get there in four hours_ , her voice calm and monotone as she hands me a book just like the one I owned. It was new and a 1951 shone on the cover showing various firearms. I take the book and open it with a newfound interest, just because my mind was in need of a distraction.

My eyes meet hers once again. She seems unfazed and I drop my look to the side of the chopper while I stutter a thank you.

As I’m starting to immerge myself in the world of guns and rifles, she informs me I had to memorise them all by the end of our trip. If I got one wrong, I wouldn’t be served dinner. Every day, this routine would continue incessantly.

She makes me uneasy. She keeps an attitude that makes me awkward, as if I was just a new recruit. I’m a veteran, I know how to be a soldier; I know how to kill without hesitation.

But here, I am powerless, just like when I was hoping to die in the trench. Except this time I am alive and it’s a constant feeling.

\--

I was allowed to eat dinner, that night.

She didn’t show any emotion as I responded correctly to all her questions and she told me she wanted me to reply faster, next time. I kept holding her stare with an almost angry frown and she moved her head on the side. _There is no need for you to frown_ , she flatly said, _take a shower, get your dinner and go to bed_. This was an odd order, I honestly had never heard. I stood still in her office in this new, foreign base. She moved her hand pointing at the door.

_Come on_ , she prompted me, _go get some rest_.

I awkwardly excused myself, still confused at this weird exchange. I thought I was just dumb; I don’t understand people. She is no exception.

\--

I have a room with another soldier. Just another one. This is also new. He is not in there when I finally get in. His side seems very tidy and over his bed there is a poster of Marilyn Monroe. I drop my box there and then as I stumble to the bed, removing my boots. I fall into the pillow and the sheets surround me with their weird bristly texture. I fall asleep almost instantly.

I wake up to a bedside lamp light, warm and small. There is another person in the room, just lying in bed reading something. My reddish eyes, still full of sleep, try to make out a face for the soldier, but the only thing I could understand was that his hair was shorter than mine was and he seemed older.

I accidentally let out a cough, moving a hand up to my face to scratch my right eye.

“You awake?”

He asks with a deep, husky voice, rising his head from the book he was reading. I mumble, hiding my head back into the blankets. I don’t want to talk. I don’t like talking.

“Whatever. Name’s Python.” The soldier tells me with an uninterested tone, “Have fun here, Jack.”

That makes me wake up almost instantly. I scoot the blankets away from my face, looking suspiciously at the man back to his night reading.

“How do you know my name?” I demanded.

“You don’t like being woken up, do you.” He lets out a harsh chuckle. “Everyone at the base knows. You’re The Boss’ pupil now. There are probably dozens here who envy you.”

I am curious about this woman, this mysterious figure who had just become my master in the art of war. I lift my body up, sitting on my knees on the bed. My hair is all ruffled up because of the nap, while I had the will to remove my jacket at some point, leaving only the undershirt falling over my trousers.

“Is she that important?”

Python drops the book down and stares at me.

“What?” He fake asks with a surprised tone, “Did you live under a rock or something?”

I frown, completely lost at this question.

“No? I lived at a base like this back in Washington.” The man’s eyes widen as he lets out a heartfelt laugh. “Damn, what’s with you? Still half asleep?”

I don’t understand. Python straightens up, composing himself after the brief moment of hilarity.

“She is just the best soldier out there, kid.” _Kid_. My expression must have been of complete bewilderment, since Python sat at the edge of the bed, as if he had to tell me a story. “She is the _Legendary Soldier_. The Mother of Special Forces.” He moved his hand as if he was tracing an imaginary line with his whole palm, and my mouth falls a little open. “The Boss fought the Second World War, guiding her whole unit to victory. They say no one can reach her level of expertise in combat and survival.”

“Is that true?” I ask, quite naively.

“Of course. I am also one of her pupils, of sort. In a way.” He clears his throat, scratching his neck.  “Anyway. She also survived radiations, you know.”

“How do you survive that?” I move my legs on the side, finally sitting down. My head is trying to imagine what radiation would do to you. They were invisible demons, killing you slowly; or instantly. It depends.

“Beats me. She is _that_ amazing. Sometimes I don’t think she’s even human.”

“And what would she be?”

“You ask too many questions at once, you know.”

I wasn’t a person who spoke a lot. I would briefly have my talkative moments, but they happened and, just as quickly, disappeared. However, this was a new ground; I was actively interested in something.

I was actively interested in _someone_.

I wanted to know why she frightened me, and yet fascinated me at the same time. I wanted to understand what her secret was, why I kept feeling so insignificant and weak around her. How I could become stronger. Stronger than her.

I laid down in bed, when Python had lost his patience with me, saying we were done talking. My mind was still twirling around the image I had of this legendary soldier, as I stared into the darkness of the room. My heart, loudly pounding in my chest. But tiredness won me over again, dragging me down into a cosy numbness.

My eyes still had The Boss’ image in them.

They will always see her image.

\--

Rumours roaming the corridors, about this extreme, insane training I was enduring under her, under The Boss, often reached my ears. I thought they were endearing. It was different here, as her disciple people respected me; everyone believed I was a super human, just like her.

Because the months passed by, and the image other people at the base were getting from me was a silent, bulky boy just returning from hell; every time, every day.

It was hell, indeed.

She was both God and the Devil at the same time.

If, for everybody, I was an incredible young talent, an obedient genius in the art of war, a masterfully crafted soldier, facing torture and pain without hesitation,

To her I was never enough

Never enough.

I was only a child for her. As she threw me on the ground with ease, she’d shout _get up_. _Get up, Jack_. It was frustrating and I hated it. I hated feeling helpless, whenever I would moan in pain when she begun torture training, when I would whimper at her to stop

With her cold eyes looking at my suffering face,

I didn’t want her to look at me like that.

I didn’t want to

I didn’t want to let her down. I tried to keep in the tears, the feeling of nausea and focus on how to stop my tremors and shiver.

Every day was too much, in that forest, far from the base. Every day, she expected me to be _a real_ super human; an invincible soldier. She wanted me to exceed myself. I didn’t understand what she really needed from me. In comparison, I was just fifteen and the other recruits, even Python, were no match for me in every field.

But I was still so insignificant near her.

And she seemed so distant, far away. Cold like a stone. Unreachable like a vision.

“Jack, get up.”

I was hurting so much. Every inch of my body was screaming, as the grass felt like a nice pillow to rest my weight on. My eyes were shut, my breathing fast. She moved closer and ordered me to get up again.

_What’s the point?_

_What’s the point?_

I clutched my fists. Two months and whatever I got from this person was an incredible sense of humiliation and enough pain to kill me.

“Jack—“

“What’s the point?” I gritted my teeth, my arms shaking with anger.

_Who is she? Why does she make me so angry?_

_Do I hate her?_

_I don’t understand._

_I don’t understand people._

“Are you giving up?”

I fell silent; my fists visibly moved by anger spasms and adrenaline. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I wanted to punch her in the face. I wanted to show her, to make her understand that I wasn’t a child anymore, I had never been one. I wanted to press my fist on her sharp cheek to give her a taste of my strength; I could hurt her if I wanted to. I wanted to hurt her so that she

So that she would like me

So that she would calm down and finally praise me for my hard work. _I am not a child, Boss. Look at me. Look at me. Tell me why you chose me. Tell me why I was given this hell._

She gazed at me from above, her face hidden by the shadows the ruthless sun cast on her. I expected her to be just as silent as I was but I could never predict what she was going to do. She reached out her hand for me to grab.

_Look at me, Boss._

Her hand, covered in a leather glove, seemed like an ominous start for something I would never fully grasp.

_Look at me, Boss._

I reached out my sweaty, shaky hand and she grabbed my whole arm, lifting me up on my feet. The Boss’ shadow felt like a cover, a big, heavy blanket to hide under. I regained my balance as she let go of me.

“There is always a reason to fight, in this time and age.”

She stated, calmly.

“I will not allow you to go unprepared on the field.” She moved her hand down to her belt, opening one of the pouches to reveal a cigar and a zippo lighter.

“I will not allow you to die on the field.”

She took the cigar to her mouth and nodded her head to me, whispering _take a break_. The Boss lighted up the cigar in front of me and took a drag. The smell was pungent and terrible, but it fitted her perfectly; the ribbons of her green bandana shook for a sudden gust of wind.

“Boss,” I stared, wobbling a little on my tired feet, still trying to catch my breath, “do you—“

I stopped mid-sentence, when her eyes caught mine. I felt incredibly stupid. I got way too emotional. It shouldn’t matter on the battlefield. Feelings don’t have room there, feelings don’t belong on a training ground. She was doing it as my master, trying to make me the best she could _because it_ _was her job_.

There is nothing personal.

There will never be anything personal.

“Say what you want to say clearly. Nobody is going to listen to you if you mumble and grunt all the time.” She straightened up and I shied away.

I am so stupid. I shook my head and saluted her, rushing to the tree where I had put my backpack. I crouched down, feeling her eyes digging in my skull.

I felt tears forming in my eyes and I gulped down, snatching my canteen, drinking avidly from it. The rest of the water was wasted over my head, my hair sticking to my forehead while I shook it off like a dog.

_What a dumb child._

The erratic, almost random movements betrayed my inner turmoil. My face managed to keep a blank stare. Torture training was working miracles for that. I fished a ration I had taken with me and started stuffing my face to forget

how much I wanted to bury myself under the dry soil

and cry until my eyes were lifeless sockets.

_Boss, do you care about me?_

\--

Summer.

Night surrounded our movements in the forest, our night vision goggles being the only thing to help us through the weeds and trees. Survival training in the dark. It was three in the morning and I was so tired, so much so I had tumbled over to her back and apologised right after. I couldn’t see her face, but she said it was alright. She said it had been a tiring day, afterall.

I think my brain was somehow finding its way to deal with The Boss’ figure, realising I would never surpass her; that made me less on the edge during training. But it was still too much for me. I had been to the medical section countless times and most of them was just because of fatigue alone.

The Boss quickly noticed it. She was slowly reducing the weight of every day training, adding days in which I would focus on less practical skills, like languages and general knowledge. I never went to school, so she would teach me various anecdotes from the most different subjects. I would go to her office and study whatever thing for hours, trying my best in speaking Russian and French.

But right now, in the darkness, I just wanted to sleep. My now longer hair plopped in front of my eyes and I blew it off, walking behind her. The Boss’ back was so imposing; it gave away a protecting vibe, as if she would protect _me_ , just like guns do.

This odd scenario filled my young body with an insane cosy sensation. Every time I ended up thinking these nonsense, I would snap out of it and repeat

_There is nothing personal._

_There is nothing personal, Jack._

_Wake up._

The Boss abruptly stopped and I bumped into her. She seemed to be checking something, maybe the time, and turned to me. Her hand placed on my shoulder.

“Let’s settle down for the night.”

I nodded and sighed out my thanks. I could sense a more relaxed expression on her face, as soon I took off the night goggles and she added, _happy about it?_

I apologised.

She said there was no need to.

\--

We set up a fire, lighting up her face as the smoke from her cigar lifts up in the sky. I grew accustomed to the smell, it doesn’t bother me too much anymore; it makes me think of her. She’s sitting on the ground, looking at the stars, while I’m near her trying to find something in my backpack. I’m so tired I stopped mid-action, slowly holding the backpack on my lap and curling over it.

She calls for me, _Jack_. It’s softer, almost a whisper, but I respond nonetheless. I lift up my head and scoot over closer to her. She points at the star with the hand holding her cigar.

“Do you know what constellation that is?”

I look up, still holding the backpack on my lap. I don’t know anything about the sky, I only thought it was very pretty. Many elements of nature are pretty to my eyes. I shook my head and rest it down on the backpack, as my knees lift up a little. I slowly move my gaze to The Boss’ face.

“That’s the Hercules constellation.”

“Hercules?” I ask.

“He was a Greek demi-god, mostly remembered for his twelve trials. He fought against mythological beasts and men, succeeding in defeating them all.”

I listen to her voice, for a fleeting moment forgetting she is my master and I’m a soldier. Her soft-spoken tone cradles me like a lullaby and I scratch my right eye with a hand.

“You know so much, Boss.”

I thought I was thinking it, but my mouth accidentally lefts out the compliment, making her look at me as she puffs out smoke from her mouth. I stiffen and look away, embarrassed. But I hear her let out an amused hum, and when I face her again, her mouth wears a small smile. That’s the first time I see her smile.

Her eyes don’t feel as cold as the usual when she stares back and says

“Are you trying to flatter me?”

She seems like she’s having fun teasing me, as I vividly shook my head, straightening up my stance. She moves her hand, signalling me to relax.

“I’m joking.”

“You are not very good at joking.” I mumble, frowning a little. She takes another drag.

“I sure am not.” I don’t know why, but this exchange had me smile myself. I looked down at my feet, my hands busy holding onto the backpack. It was good. It felt nice.

I felt like I was something else besides a soldier. It was as if I was actually a teenager and I was having a random conversation with someone. _With her_. The more time passed the more I noticed The Boss and I were very similar, or maybe I was just taking it all off from her; but she seemed to have a hard time expressing feelings. Any kind. That’s why this moment was so special to me. I felt special.

I was witnessing her amusement, and I was the reason of her smile.

“Boss?”

I look down at the dark grass. I don’t have the strength to face her, but I’m not nervous.

“What is it, Jack?”

I blink a couple of times before lifting my head up to the sky.

“Do you care about me?”

As soon as the words escape my mouth, I do become nervous. The seconds pass, running over the silence of the moment, and she’s not replying, and she’s quiet

And she doesn’t care

She can't care

But that’s fine, I think. My head starts reeling up all the possible insults I could remember, because I was indeed a stupid boy. An emotional boy. She is my master, I am just a student. Her professionality is impeccable, I cannot be special. I know.

I should know.

But the silence hurts me in a way that makes me want to scream. I want to have a contact, I want her to

I want her to

To comfort me

I want someone

I want someone to hold me and make me feel like I’m human and not a machine.

I stare at the sky, scared that I would break down in front of her. Scared that fifteen years of this shitty life would claim their price now, making me look like a fool in front the most important person in my life.

I hear her moving a little closer. I manage to look at her with a poker face. I don’t understand if she’s uneasy or angry but her face is odd. It gives off a melancholic aura as she looks into my eyes, trying to find something, or someone.

Maybe someone she missed.

“I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.” I rush in. One more word and I’m done for. I want to yell.

“It’s not.”

Her hand pats my head and my eyes widen. My cheek flush because this is all I wanted. Forgetting about war for just this little moment as she strokes my hair, and her sad eyes look at me. Her hand moves to my back, patting it twice.

“Get some sleep, child.”

\--

It’s September, eight months of training with The Boss.

My first sneaking mission with her. It’s not a drill. She checks my equipment, the way I’m wearing it, asking me about my radio and made sure I remember our frequencies. She tightens one of my straps. It looks like a worried mother trying to ensure her son off his first day to school.

But of course her grip was harsh, her eyes focused. The Boss’ face was serious and tense.

“We will head in. Our mission is to take some important documents back home.”

She would never tell me the full extents of our missions and she never will. We flew to the USSR, Ukraine to be exact. Just the two of us, infiltrating and taking the documents back home safe and sound.

Seemed easy, in my mind.

Comparatively to dying in an open field, it was almost preferable. My body was being hit by puberty and I kept hating it. The Boss wanted me to make this “weakness” into a powerful ally. Become silent like a butterfly, sneak like a snake. Make so that your heavy body disappears into the walls and floors. 

I thought it would go well. I thought it would be fine, because The Boss was there with me.

But she couldn’t always be with me.

I couldn’t rely on her for everything.

The mission was going smoothly and we retrieved the documents; yet, as we were on our way back out, someone saw us and the alarms went off. Maximum alert and a whole armed base was hunting us down. The Boss held the documents herself while she ordered me to run off alone

We were to meet at the rendezvous point.

_I trust you, Jack_ , she said grabbing my shoulder. _Don’t die on me_.

I remembered those words when I saw the blade of a knife shine above my head, a guard hissing _die, you little shit_. He was over me, sitting his whole weight over me. I failed to overthrown him on the ground, he took me by surprise. I was so close to get away.

The Boss face was all I could think about,

Her smile.

I didn’t want to die.

I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to let her down.

My body was shaking in fear and anger, my breath was fast and irregular as I screamed my lungs out. I managed to punch the man over me in the guts. The blade fell from his hands.

I could sneak out from under him and push the guard down. I took a rock in my hands. The man shouted something but I sat over him and I hit his face with the rock.

Smashing his nose in

And teeth out

And blood on my face

As my eyes widen and I can’t stop

I can’t stop

The body under me goes still. Dead. And I keep bashing this man’s head in until my hands are seized by someone else’s. The Boss makes me drop the rock, shouting at me.

_Jack, stop it!_

_Jack!_

_Jack, he’s dead!_

Her hands are on my face now, I see her eyes. I’m shaking. I open my mouth to scream. This is the first time I did something like this; I had never killed someone hand to hand with such brutality. This wasn’t what I had learnt, it wasn’t pulling people out of their misery. It was inflicting pain for the sake of it, survival instinct.

She holds my face, tells me I can’t let myself go now. I can’t explode here. I would sabotage my mission, our mission. I would sabotage our whole country and let us die.

I look at her lips spelling out

_Get used to it. This is not the first nor the last time this happens._

She keeps asking me if I understand, if I get it.

And I nod

And I go numb but I walk behind her like a marionette.

I don’t remember much after that.


	3. Before you float into nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tennessee Waltz: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ek3eCbfqp0  
> Before you float into nothing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhSTIr6yYIU
> 
> Sorry for the late update, been busy. I thought I'd split the chapter to avoid a monumentally lengthy one.

This time I was stitched together by others, medics, and they asked me if I was okay, if my eyes worked fine. If I felt pain anywhere.

I shook my head and they put me in a chopper back _home_ , back to the place I’ve been living in for almost a year. The Boss is with me. She doesn’t talk to me, and I don’t look at her. I have been staring at my feet for a day and a half. I still feel the rock in my hands. Whenever I close my eyes I still see that man’s face.

When we land, The Boss orders me to go and wait in her office, while she wraps somethings up with other adults I don’t care about. I am still numb.

I walk through the corridors, feeling as if I’m watching myself move, pushing doors. And that boy I see has a dead face. His blue eyes have no gleam left, he drags himself slowly to his destination.

When the boy sits down, I go back in his body. I am in The Boss’ office, staring at the wall in front of me.

_Get used to it._

I repeat in my head. I don’t like me. I don’t like who I am; I was frightened by myself, by my own actions. Such violence. What scares me the most, right now,

Sitting on this couch, in a warm room,

Is thinking that,

In that moment I liked killing a man. The pure adrenaline rush was like a drug my brain was growing accustomed to, so it needed more. It always needed more. It demanded me blood, it screamed at me for that same violence. I don’t like me. I don’t like who I am.

I look at the wall in front of me and I think that I would do that again, take the heavy rock and smash it on someone’s head. Get a gun in my hand and shoot a person repeatedly, until they fall down. My brain is craving these sacrifices, because that’s all I know. That’s what makes me who I am. Killing makes me feel alive, pinpoints my presence in time and space; I am here, I am me. But at the same time, the me on the battlefield is someone I don’t know. Someone don’t want to know.

This is terrible.

The Boss opens the door and turns on the light. I was sitting on the couch with just the fading afternoon light peeking in from the windows.

“Jack.” She whispers sternly, closing the door behind her. Her first words to me since the mission as an one-on-one conversation. I move my eyes down again.

I feel

Fucked up.

A mess.

“How are you?”

I see myself jumping up, finally screaming my anguish. Finally letting it go.

_I’m fucked up!_

_T_ _his is fucked up!_

_You’re fucked up!_

_I’m through this, I quit! I surrender!_

_So, please,_

_please make me feel something that doesn’t hurt me. Please._

_Please, Boss. I beg you._

But I sit quietly and I feel the tears filling up my eyes. I couldn’t keep them in, this time. I’m weak. I’m so weak, Boss. Crying in front of you, ridiculous. I’m even lower than a child now, I’m just a baby.

I look up and I can’t almost see her, everything is so blurry. Everything is disconnected. I hear myself huffing, trying to cage in my squirms and sobs. The tears drop down my cheeks, but her face is unreadable, like always.

She moves a few steps towards me, as if she was testing the ground; as if she was worried but didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t manage all of this anymore. My façade falls and shambles in thousands of pieces. I start to sob so loudly I couldn’t even recognise my own voice. She walks to me, you could even say rushing to me, and I don’t care that I’m acting like a baby, undignified. I reach out my hands, towards her.

_Please, Boss._

I hiccup in-between the sobs, while she lets me wrap my shaky arms around her waist. She’s standing up in front of me, as I’m gripping my hands onto her uniform like a desperate sailor at sea, fumbling to find something to hold on to during a vicious storm. I never held onto someone before. I had never felt this primal urge to feel close to someone.

_Please, Boss. I’m so sorry._

_I’m sorry I’m not strong like you are._

_I’m sorry I’m not like you._

She slowly moves to my side and sits down near me, adjusting the hug. She’s holding me. Her hand is on the back of my head. She was so direct on the field, stone cold face. Get used to it, she shouted at me.  Think about the mission.

Yet, as I was another person while holding a gun, she was also a different person. I cry in The Boss’ chest, while she strokes my back and lies to me.

“It’s going to be alright.”

She lies to me, because she knows I needed it. She keeps repeating it like a mantra, holding me like her son. I feel her cradling me in her arms, it makes me want to cry louder.

I get the feeling I would never allow myself to look like this in front of her, ever again. 

When I calm down, ten minutes had passed and my whole body is dizzy and tired. I don’t want to let go. This is the safest place I’ve ever been. She’s here.  I don’t know what expression she’s wearing right now, but she doesn’t move either; so I place my head on her shoulder, sniffing in every now and then because of the tears. Darkness is all I see now, my eyes closed. I feel her knuckles gently stroking my face.

It’s never going to be alright.

But for now, let’s pretend.

\--

I wake up on the office couch. A blanket covers my whole body and I feel horrible, my head is pounding and I wish I didn’t get back to my senses. My ears reach out to the sound of a pen writing down, and I can hear a feeble music coming from the radio. It was Tennessee Waltz by Patti Page. I recognise it because they would often play it on the radio. I turn on my back, seeing The Boss’ figure back to work. Her head down, looking at her papers, while the light from the table lamp shone on her face. The sound of light rain came from the slightly opened window.

It is a surreal scene. A moment in time I could feel lazy and not move, just listen to the music filling the room and rest my mind. I had never paid too much attention to music, but I found myself liking it more and more as The Boss always seemed very interested in it. I gaze at her focused expression, while my body still remembered her strong arms around me. I sigh heavily, making her lift her head. Our eyes meet.

“Stay.”

Her flat voice orders over the music.

“You’re off duty now, until tomorrow morning.”

I sit up, passing a hand on my face. I can feel its sides getting harsher, the skin less soft. A shadow of a beard will soon appear, in a year or so.

“Boss--” my voice cracks in a way I didn’t expect, as I look down to my hands. She interrupts me.

“Look at me.” It reminds me of our first encounter. My head moves back up and I feel like a disappointment. Nevertheless, she looks as if nothing had happened and keeps her eyes on me.

“Boss, I’m so sorry.” I manage to say, while I struggle to keep up with her face. Just looking at her makes me remember, like earlier, how much I don’t like myself. And I know that I will keep killing because I enjoy it. As many things in my life, it’s something I can’t change anymore. It’s in me. It’s war itself showing her true form, corroding my brain, leaving me wanting more. Exactly like an addicted man, I will scoop the soil of war zones expecting preys, expecting violence.

When I’m alone, I feel like I should cut my skin and let myself be free. Open my stomach so that my soul can finally die out.

When I’m with The Boss, there is some weird peace in me. War seems a little less scary, because she’s there. I have an incredibly sick relationship with her. It doesn’t come from her I suppose, it’s all mine. This twisted attachment, co-dependency; it’s all mine. I can’t even remember how I lived almost fifteen years without her and in just six months she established herself as the one person in my life,

The only person I could die for.

She is the only person I care about.

She makes me feel human, she makes me feel alive, even when I’m not holding a gun.

“Stop apologising so much, Jack.” She stands up and it startles me stiff. I look at her coming towards me and pass by. I turn around, looking at her taking something from a shelf. The office was very plain, nothing really seemed to describe her; what her interests were, what her past was like. No pictures, no personal belongings. Just like my bed, she was a blank sheet. I didn’t even know her name.

She comes back and hands me a metal box. My eyes steal another look from her and then I move to the box, before opening it. There is chocolate inside, in many flavours and with different toppings and shapes.

“A friend gave it to me, but it’s been sitting there for a week now. Eat it.”

She folds her arms, looking at me taking the first chocolate ball in my mouth; it’s so good. It’s so good it makes me want to cry again. I’ve read somewhere it helps with depression and I understand why.

“You seem rather happy whenever you eat, so go ahead.”

My eyes aren’t empty anymore as I look at The Boss with my mouth full of chocolate, with the sweet taste on my tongue. She stares back, and yet again, it feels different. Her eyes seem sadder. Her eyes seem gentler. It always looks like she’s looking at me and seeing someone else, missing someone far back in the days.

I hold out the metal box to her and there’s an almost surprised expression meeting that gesture. She takes one and nods a thank you. I smile a little, seeing this side of her that is just mine, just for me.

I don’t care if I don’t know her name, as long as I can witness her.

\--

Winter got to us unexpectedly. It came fast, in early November, and stayed deep until March of the following year. In early December, I saw the base transform into something I had always liked. Christmas. The soldiers would take their leave to meet their families, or if they had none, they would just stay at the base or go to the nearest town to drink and have fun.

Python left. He went back to the mainland, without specifying anything about his family.

He was a very unusual presence in my life, because he would never overstep boundaries with me and the way he talked to me was nice.

I liked it.

I think Python was my first friend. He teased me a lot, but I didn’t feel like getting angry; he always lost at poker and didn’t allow me to drink in our room.

The room was empty now and it would be until after New Year’s Eve. I had never had a room for myself. It didn’t feel right. It was incredible for me that The Boss would allow me weeks off training, even though she would keep me in check and still have our Russian lessons. Waking up at seven and a half, even eight in the morning and staring at the ceiling, no sirens, no pushing for breakfast or the showers; it was nice, but also scary, almost lacking reality.

The lonely room was too dark for me, so one evening I sneaked into the common room, in which a beautiful Christmas tree was standing, decorated with all its beautiful, lively lights.

Staring at the tree had a calming effect on me. The colours were so vivid, blinking on and off. On and off, for the whole night, forever. I stared at it for a while, alone in the dark. There were probably forty or fifty people left in the whole base and there were two common rooms. The other one had a TV set in it, so most of the people would gather there, leaving me to freely roam the abandoned hall by myself.

I touch the lights and remember the first time I had ever seen a Christmas tree, when I was seven. An adult soldier explained to me what the holiday was about, about Jesus and Mary and the three Kings. But he also mentioned Santa Claus. He said he couldn’t visit us because we couldn’t be considered good children, but we weren’t bad either. But sometimes, some older child would be given presents by other soldiers saying it was from Santa, they should be happy about it, they said.

I had never received a present.

I apologised to the tree for taking some of its light and taking them in my room. Red and yellow lights now shine on the ceiling above my bed and I think they’re pretty, like the stars and the sky. I have fun, before sleeping, inventing stories on the battlefield some absurd things and giant monsters, and explosions. My hands move over the lights, making shadows to supply the lack of anything else. Sometimes I would take out my unloaded gun to project something special on the ceiling.

The story turned gruesome very quickly.

I would call it a day whenever everyone started dying.

\--

It snowed, briefly, ten days before Christmas. I don’t particularly like snow, but that day was interesting.

“Are you doing something special for Christmas?” The Boss asked, standing behind me with a mug in her hand. She was looking over me, doing what could be called homework. Filling up sheets with words in a foreign language and translate old military documents nobody cared about anymore.

“Not really.” I shrugged, trying my best to understand the meaning of a sentence popping on paper.

“Are you going to wait for Santa?” she said with a clearly amused tone and I turned around, nodding slowly. She was sipping her tea when she frowned in confusion, just a little.

“Does he come here, too?” I questioned her with a serious, but somewhat expectant face.

“What do you mean?”

I think I blushed a little in embarrassment, just because it’s her and just because I had never spoken about it to anyone else.

“I think,” I look away for a moment and then back at her “I think he has forgotten about me, or something.”

I tightly held the pen in my hand, worried at how The Boss was looking at me, her frown growing more and more concerned.

“He is a busy person.” I tried to excuse that pitiful thought I had accidentally voiced with a more logical response. “It _is_ difficult to deliver to so many all around the world in just one night, afterall.”

The Boss crossed her arms, the mug still firmly in her grip, as she lifted up her head in agreement. She took her time to go around the desk and sit down, pointing me with a finger.

“I shouldn’t tell you but, the army _does_ track Santa’s movements.”

“What?” My voice rose from the low grumble it usually was. I almost stood up, as this comes off to me as the greatest news of my life. “How? Why?” I kept going, moving the chair closer to desk, head hunched back in my shoulders.

The Boss took a pen in her hand to emphasise what she was telling me, that secret scheme so dearly hidden by the army.

“We use the NORAD to track him.”

“ _The NORAD_ is involved?” I couldn’t believe my ears, my mouth slightly agape.

“Yes. He still is an unidentified object, technically, and he is passing through our sky. We need to keep track of his every movement. You never know.”

“But he wouldn’t harm us, Boss! He brings presents to children and eats cookies.”

“Jack, you must always be prepared.”

I wrinkle my nose, a little annoyed. I don’t want to think of him as an enemy. But she continued,

“Every December, we set up a hotline and wait for people to contact us with their sights of the man.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

I close my fists around the homework sheet, my eyes locked onto her waiting for a response.

“No. But I talked to him.”

She was the most incredible human being on this planet. She was the best soldier, survived nuclear radiation and spoke to Santa. Her face was granite, serious as ever, pointing the pen to my exuberant self.

“Maybe by the time Christmas comes around I’ll show you the frequency.”

I nodded multiple times as she instructed me on not destroying the paper and finish writing down my homework, but I kept asking her about Santa. How his voice was and how he sounded like. Was he kind, polite? Did he bring presents to the base?

The Boss told me it was a secret; I shouldn’t let anyone else know. I eagerly grinned at her and swore not to reveal it unless extreme circumstances appeared.

\--

On Christmas Eve, the base was almost empty. Few people staying in, the number down to thirty or less. There wasn’t much snow on the outskirts outside of the base, but I would have my run around the training perimeter every day, seeing how they always made sure to clean it. After warming up, I would leave footprints in the amassed whiteness on the side of the track, sometimes kicking it, making it in a ball and throwing it to the fence.

It was so silent. Everything was silent. It made it too easy for intrusive thoughts to barge in my head, asking, begging for the next mission. Expecting the usual adrenaline rush that comes from escaping death, loading a machine gun and fire it on a crowd of soldiers.

Flames.

I threw the last snowball of the day onto the wall before going to take a shower. It didn’t take long for me to get out, and it was frigid cold as soon as I stepped outside from the stall. All the mirrors in the room attacked by steam. I was combing my hair with no rush, I didn’t really have to be anywhere before lunch. My buzz cut was long gone, as my head was starting to have a softer, fuller hairstyle on it. Not that I took any care of my hair in particular, but it was getting rather long.

My hand passed over the surface of the mirror in front of me, showing just my eyes for a brief moment before I roughly cleaned the rest away. The boyish look still lingered on my features and I gazed to the bruises on my body, somehow naively guessing everyone had that many scars. Of course, normal people don’t, but I had seen way too many crippled men covered with wounds and scabs to think otherwise.

I made a face to the me in the mirror, looking up to the sticky, wet hair falling down on my forehead. I used my finger to draw the sea onto the lower side of the mirror, still covered in steam, and a palm tree near my face.

A vague memory of shells and the sea roamed through my mind.

I added stick figures on the beach with stick rifles in their hands.

My eyes stare back at myself, before I erase the picture.

\--

Today the cafeteria holds two other soldiers eating their meal alone. The cooks chat behind the counter, having some free time at one in the afternoon, as odd as it sounded.

I wished I could eat with The Boss, at least once. Sitting down and share a meal. But she never showed up for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner.

I wouldn’t even realise she’d eat if I hadn’t seen her have beans with me multiple times while we had to stay outside overnight, for training. The food on my tray quickly disappeared without me really registering it; I would swallow almost anything without a second thought, if that would fill me up.

I was on my way back to my room, since I had nothing better to do than study more French. My pronunciation was still abysmal but if I wasn’t forced to, that would be my last option. The thought of just reading _something_ was way more appealing, titles she had suggested me. Maybe, just skipping through Python’s magazines and then placing them back so he wouldn’t notice; looking at the smiling ladies held by handsome young men in the ads for cars and cigarettes, gazing down at the articles about the horoscope and music. Mundane things I have no connection with, and yet I’d always found them fascinating.

I meet The Boss in the hallway and she seems in a rush. A rush towards me. She puts a hand on my shoulder and tells me to come with her, it’s important.

I almost can’t keep up with her, her face was a mix of concern and amusement. I had never seen that expression, not on her, not on anyone else. I find myself in her office and she goes towards the radio, handing me the headphones.

“It’s him.”

She stated.

“Him?”

I asked.

“Santa.”

I stare at her long enough to think I must have frozen in time, before I turn my head to the lights of the radio in front of me.

“You can talk to him, we asked him to answer some of our questions so he’s still on hold.”

I don’t know, I don’t know how to feel. I take one head on one side of the earphone and adjust the microphone. The Boss understands that as some kind of sign and turns on the speakers. There’s an odd noise coming from the other side.

“Come on,” she encourages me, “talk to him.”

My mouth agape as I utter a basic

“Hello?”

There is a man on the other side, and he sounds so, so old.

“Hello? Who is it?” He replies and I stiffen in place, awkwardly turning my head to The Boss expectant face. I don’t know what to say so I just vaguely gesture _something_ to her, asking for help or orders or whatever. My heart is pounding. She mouths a _your name, tell him your name_.

“I, I”

I try to remember what my formal introduction should be, number, regiment, or something like that but my mind is completely blank. I go for the safest route.

“I’m Jack”, The Boss adds a whispered _sir_ , “sir.” I repeat after her, trying to find some peace of mind. I had never really felt like this, I was acting in such a childish way I was surprised by my own actions.

“Hello, Jack. Do you have something to ask me?”

The man spoke softly and I heard him shifting on a chair, a flap of wings, maybe. I didn’t think this was possible, finally talking to him. He exists.

He exists.

“I was wondering if you” I cleared my throat, as I felt my cheeks becoming a vivid red, “If you take presents to the base, here.”

“Oh,” he mumbles under his breath before speaking again, “I’m not sure, boy.”

I lower my head a little. I didn’t expect him to say yes, or to talk to me at all. There is a little child in me who’s crying. I nod to myself.

“I understand. Thank you for your cooperation.” I take off the headphones and hand them to The Boss. I have a little, shy smile on my face as I sit down on the sofa of the office and stare down at the carpet, hearing her voice thanking Santa again. I fold my arms and relax a little. I'm lightheaded. I gaze at The Boss moving in front of me.

Her face is always so puzzling to me.

She looks angry.

Or worried.

Or upset.

I don’t know.

“What did he say?”

“He’s not sure he can come.” I shouldn’t feel sad. I actually haven’t been feeling sad in a long time, which I guess it’s a nice change of emotions for once. I force that weird smile on my face. “As expected.”

“Jack, you never know.”

She mirrors my folded arms and we look so similar, it’s outstanding.

“You should check under the tree just to be sure, when midnight comes.”

I frown, my fake smile quickly swept away as I focus on the edge of the sofa, staring at the armrest.

“Boss,” the intermittent lights of the radio blink in the room and the sun is already starting to set, “will you get a present?”

She shifts her weight from a leg to the other.

“I’m not a good person, Jack.”

“That’s not true.” I mumble, in a stubborn attempt at to reinforce my heroic view of her. “I think you deserve a present.”

“That’s sweet.”

I look up to her.

She’s smiling, again.

“Thank you.”

And it’s not a half smile, a bitter grimace that resembles a pleased expression. It’s a genuine, soft smile.

_I think you’re a good person, Boss._

_Do you think I’m a good person, too?_

\--

I should be asleep, but it’s midnight and I’m crying near the Christmas tree.

I’m holding a present, wrapped in a nice orange or yellowish paper. I can’t really make it out since the Christmas lights are the only thing that light up the room. They were on when I got downstairs, sneaking past the guards on night watch duty. They usually stayed off late at night to save power, but today was special.

The tears roll down my cheeks. He exists and he remembered me. Someone remembered me. He brought me something. I pass one of my sweaty palms across my face to give myself a rough clean up. I don't even want to know what the present is, but it's mine, it's my first present, my only present.

The lights go on and off in turns, painting my face with colours while darkness surrounds me, in a deep, cold Christmas morning.

I hold the small box in my arms, trying to keep this moment from slipping away.


	4. This kind of life keeps breaking your heart

There is a first time for everything.

The first time you walk upright, the first time you lose a tooth, the first time you kiss.

 

The first time you hold a gun.

The first time you kill someone.

 

The first time you are a prisoner.

My hands are tightly fastened with metal handcuffs and I know my nose is bleeding. I taste my own blood, it fills my mouth and I breathe heavily. I don’t know if it’s dark because I have a bag on my head or if it’s just because I lost track of time in the pitch black of the cell.

I’m seventeen and a half.

1953.

I’ve been tortured for three days, they kept trying to make me spit out information about The Boss and her whereabouts. They were able to ambush me on my way back to the rendezvous point. I wasn’t supposed to be there, I wasn’t supposed to come, but I insisted. The Boss didn’t really know what my role would be, so she had told me to watch the perimeter around the mission area and to call in for supplies or help if needed.

Yet, they had caught me.

Every time they electrocute me, my screams sound a little further away. I remember The Boss’ ice cold eyes ordering me with her imposing voice, _don’t break._ _Don’t break._

I don’t.

They beat me up. I don’t feel my face anymore. Their yelling voices are impatient, they want me to talk, how long can a boy keep this farce up?

I am silent like the dead. I don’t speak, I just scream.

I’m still too young to have the maturity and the guts to challenge my torturers, so I just stare at them, relentlessly. Constantly.

When night comes, the stench of my own body makes me dizzy more than I already am. I shiver, spams make my arms and legs try to break free. The guards comment.

Some of them are just trying to get news on who I am and how I’m still holding up. Others are nasty. They are the lowest scum. They mention things they want to do to me, because _my eyes are so pretty_ and my body would be a good way to shook off the tension. _If you turn your face away_ , one said, _you could imagine it's a girl_.

My eyes are pretty and they are full of disgust as I listen to them talk while I lay on the cell floor. Powerless.

On the fourth day, I wake up to grunting from outside and guns falling heavily on the floor. I look up at the cell door opening. In the dark two hands take my face and move it upwards.

The Boss stares at me and I can only make out a few lines of her expression. She’s surrounded by the light coming from the corridor.

 _I’m sorry I kept you waiting_ , The Boss whispers.

She’s like the sun.

\--

“I didn’t speak.”

I agonise on her shoulders, while she carries my weak body away.

“I know you wouldn’t.”

The Boss replies with her firm voice, before crouching down to call the chopper in. We were finally out from the alarmed base.

“I trained you not to.”

_Yes, you did._

She moves to the given position as we wait and she puts me down on the ground, positioning one of her hands under my chin, so that she could lift it up. Her finger brushed against one of the sporadic patches of hair I was starting to grow on the lower side of my face.

She seemed like she wanted to ask me something, but she stood silent, looking at my swollen eyes. She cleaned my nose off from the blood. I sniffed in and clutched my fists, trying not to lose consciousness.

The pilot’s voice comes in from the radio and we could finally hear the chopper’s noise getting closer. She stands up and I numbly grab her wrist as a prop to get on my feet. I don’t want to be carried anymore. I don’t want to be a burden.

 _This won’t happen again_ , I think, but it will happen many times in the future. After a while, I just got used to it.

I feel her hand lightly placed on my shoulder, like a safety net in case my legs were too weak to sustain my weight. The chopper lands and I free myself from that protective grip, limping awkwardly for the three, four steps that divided me from the protection of the aircraft.

The medics inside help me to get in.

I am burning.

I want to kill everyone in that base. I can clearly see my hands holding a machine gun, taking back what I lost with a rightful spree of vengeance.

I am burning.

It’s not good.

I catch a glimpse of The Boss’ stern look as I sit down and the medics inject me morphine for the pain.

Her eyes,

They’re the water to tame my flames.

\--

When you’re on the field, you learn to disconnect from everything you know about social living. You end up abandoning friends’ dead bodies, hoping someone will find them and give them the rightful burial they deserve, because you cannot put your mission in jeopardy. You need to march and finish your task.

But it’s not easy to reconnect, when you’re back from a mission. Many aren’t able to do it, and it makes them unable to create relationships with others. They try, but fail and blame themselves on their lost skills.

I think The Boss never reconnected.

She managed to live her life loving very little and understanding that love even less.

Her life seemed like a big puzzle with missing pieces. She’d force other, uneven ones in the holes. And they didn’t fit. But I guess she would enjoy the view of a filled gap, a sense of completion, just for a little while. Until the unfitting piece would reclaim its freedom and pop out.

I don’t know whose person I was filling in for, but I’m glad she tried to reconnect with me.

 

A lingering doubt kept me awake at times, wondering if I was ever connected to begin with.

\--

The sea brings my corpse back to the shore. The waves move around me, lulling my young and hurt body.

The sky is pink and I feel distant. I am looking up, to the sunset coloured infinity above me. Everything is silent, but the sea.

The Boss comes into my field of view, gazing down at me. Her feet sucked in by the sand and her hair falling down on the side of her head. She looks inquisitive.  

“What are you doing?”

She asks, her question out of place, her voice equally distant to mine.

“Are you real?”

I reply with another question, my arm extends up towards her. I am strangely dry, for floating in water.

“Am I alive?”

Silence fills the in-betweens like a comforting blanket.

“You are.”

She slowly crouches down.

“I thought I had died.”

My hand accidentally touches The Boss cheek as she gets on her knees. The arm falls in the water again with a loud splash and I stare into the distance, looking at the clouds passing by. This place is odd and familiar; this place feels like home.

“You’re just sleeping.”

The Boss voice reaches in into my paranoid brain, that depressing clutch of issues. But now, it’s clear. Now, it’s calm.

I’ve never felt like this. I feel good, I feel like everything is right.

I turn my head on the side and my arm is a bony appendix, the flesh completely burnt and dropping off. I keep my eyes locked onto it, seeing the blood trail washed away in the sea.

“Sleeping?”

I look up at my now raised hands. They’re both skeletal, eerie limbs. I don’t mind it.

“You were burning.”

The Boss calmly states, looking beyond the sea, somewhere far.

I finally sit up, as the water comes and go, touching my legs. I realise I’m not feeling the water on my skin. I don’t perceive anything, actually.

“You should wake up, now.”

“I want to stay.”

My brows knit, sorrow riling up in me. The idea of leaving bothers me. It’s good here, isn’t it? It’s fine. Everything is perfect here, I don’t want to go. I don’t need to leave. I can live here, with my ugly arms and my burning body. I can be happy here.

“Jack. Please, wake up.”

I shake my head, my expression is pure pain, as if all the peace I had was suddenly tore apart and smashed into pieces. A tear falls from The Boss’ right eye, but she doesn’t change her face. She doesn’t move.

“Please, my child.”

She whispers.

“Wake up.”

My bony hands are on her shoulders as I murmur back,

“Can I come back? In a while?”

The Boss holds me, and I keep asking her. Repeating my childish desire to feel safe. I cannot feel her arms around me this time,

She is far

I want to stay

“I will wait for you.” she says.

I want to stay.

 

I wake up.

\--

There is a dim light in the room, I hear machines and beeps coming from my sides. I don’t understand where I am.

Last time I closed my eyes,

Last time I closed my eyes

I was at the American base on Kwajalein in the Marshall Islands, when the ashes of death started falling from the sky. A mushroom as tall as God itself.

I was burning, indeed. I didn’t even have the chance to think I might have died.

March 1, 1954.

Moved to the Bikini Atoll to perform in the Castel Bravo operation; just standing by, guard duty. The Boss didn’t approve. I was relocated without her consent in January and I felt ill for my whole stay. She called the base asking for me. Once.

I missed her.

The people at this base made me realise I still didn’t know how to act around others I was unfamiliar with.

Distant.

But I knew, soon I would see her again, just wait till May.

I am nineteen years old and my body feels heavier than it already is, as I lay in what seems to be a hospital bed. There is a person on a chair, near the bed.

The Boss is asleep. It’s the first and last time I’d see her asleep like that, just so slightly lighted up by one warm, orange like lamp near the bed.

My eyes drop down to my arms and they have bandages all over, but they’re not bones. I try to speak but I could only let out a weak whimper. My efforts to sluggishly move one of my ghastly arms to the metal surrounding my bed are rewarded, as it makes a slight clang. _Boss_ , I make out the word. _Boss_ , I repeat in an inaudible tone.

Her figure moves from her numbness, lifting up her head to search the room and find her focus again. It looked so odd to see The Boss with her guard down, it made her more human.

She finally looks down at me.

She transforms into something I had never seen. Her arms, tightly folded, slowly move to the chair’s armrests, and her face twist in an expression I’d call bewilderment, or shock. 

“Jack?”

She asks, staring at me and moving to stand up.

“Hi.” I mumble, unable to change my position because of the pain. I’m hurting now, hurting so much I _wish_ I were dead. The Boss is on her feet, leaning down on me just like in my dream. Her eyes have a gleam in them, and she doesn’t know where to touch me, probably in fear of hurting me. She frowns and just briefly, I see a tear dropping on the sheets.

But when she speaks, it’s as if nothing had happened. A clear, firm voice.

“Welcome back.”

\--

The Boss told me I survived an atomic testing gone wrong, and they didn’t know how. I was in a coma for a week because of a head concussion, which is kind of ironic. A staple of my life.

I was burnt in many parts of my body but they weren’t life threatening. The real viciousness was the radiations I was exposed to.

They sat me up two days after I woke up and told me I would stay bedridden for at least three months, but for now, they didn’t notice any changes. I might develop cancer, leukaemia. My organs might suddenly fail me.

But they had seen something going on in my reproductive system. The doctor explained I had become sterile, his words falling out of his mouth as if they were dropping bombs. I nodded my shaved head, asking if I was going to feel any different.

 _No_ , the doctor replied.

When I got some time alone with The Boss, she asks me if I’m upset at the news.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever want children.”

“I thought you liked children.”

“ _Like_ is a bold statement. But children are nice.” I look to my side with tired eyes, “I enjoy their company.” _I find them more understandable than most adults_. I pause for a moment, as The Boss takes out something from her pocket, an agenda maybe.

“What would my children even do?” I moved my eyes back onto my hand, remembering the skeletal limb in its place, “What would I do with them? Teach them how to be a soldier?”

I scoff and look up to the ceiling. The Boss is silent and it makes me a little tense. I feel her eyes on me.

\--

My sense of smell seemed to be deteriorating as well, but I could still distinguish foul odours from pleasant ones. Just very feebly. I didn’t realise the doctors hadn’t told The Boss until she clearly didn’t understand how I was struggling to smell the flowers she had brought in to decorate my hospital room. I didn’t think it’d be useful to tell her, anyway.

It will be a resourceful skill if I had to lie near corpses, I thought.

It will just make up for it with impeccable moves on the battlefield, I thought.

The days in the hospital are boring and I feel trapped. I could finally walk back on two legs after a month, feeling heavy and hurt while placing every step. I had to slowly drag my feet on the floor, while leaning on my IV pole. I would cough rather harshly from times to times and that had me sitting down for a bit to recover.

What a pitiful thing.

I think my depression started to show its true colours, especially during that time. The only other contact I had besides The Boss was Python. He would come around to chat about other topics besides hospital talk. The outside, what was going on in the big scheme of things.

It was odd. I felt pleased to know what other conflict had happened, how much the United States was involved, what prisoners were caught and how many survivors lived through a raid. It felt very mundane to me, talking about these things.

Then Python would give me one of his magazines about actual mundane things, with Elvis Presley on the cover or a Sophia Loren article inside. He told me I would have a blank stare whenever skipping the pages, as if I was reading some weird alien language. I shrugged. It just always seemed to me, there was a giant gap between me and other people. Now it was just getting bigger. There is something broken in me and I never figured out how to put it back together, like a perpetual thousand-yard stare.

For how much I tried to fill that gap,

For how much I tried to build over it,

I just kept sinking in.

When I talked with The Boss, it would shrink and I could hop to her. Share. Communicate at a deeper level, without words.

But she had her own heart full of holes. I was just filling in. I was allowed in, as someone’s replacement.

It was alright, though.

As long as I could be with her.

It was alright.

I started smoking during my staying in the hospital. At the time there were no rules restricting the habit, so it was pretty easy to sneak in some cigarettes. I didn’t even know how badly of smoke I’d smell, but the faint taste of tobacco in my mouth was a good way to sublimate my addition to the battlefield. I wished I could smoke a cigar. It wasn’t for any reason in particular, besides it looked very fancy and The Boss smoked them, but they were expensive and I didn’t dare to ask her in person for one.

I wasn’t a boy anymore.

I stood taller, as tall as her, maybe even one or two centimetres above. I was still growing, but, before the Castel Bravo incident, I was very muscular and robust, especially on my upper body. A force to be reckon with, they said. I _was_ frightening in my stance, indeed.

It was a conflicting experience.

I usually kept shaved because of the fashion of the time, for soldiers at base at least. There were indeed some older veterans having full-grown beards, but it wasn’t the norm.

During my staying at the hospital, I also started growing a beard.

 _Aren’t you shaving,_ The Boss would ask. _It makes you look unclean_ , she said.

She kept treating me as if I was still fifteen, though. Nothing else.

I would shake my head, my eyes tiredly gazing on a magazine.

 _It’s tactically good, in a mission. It could shield my face from cold and other possible threats. I thought I could make a decent use of it._ I replied. She was impressed with my comeback and allowed me to keep the beard, at the condition I would take care of it and not let it grow wild, like some kind of jungle man.

It was hard to take care of it.

It was hard to take care of myself.

\--

People couldn’t believe their ears, when the rumour of me surviving radiations started spreading around, like an oil stain. I was really the pupil of The Boss, they said. Incredible, skilled. Immortal.

Is this what The Boss felt, whenever they’d revere her as some kind of godly being? When I’d look at her and see something too far to be human, too far to be just a soldier?

The backhouse talk would settle down after a year and half of me being back in action, and whenever I’d show up to some other base, with or without The Boss, soldiers would gasp and ask me

 _Are you_ her _apprentice?_

They didn’t really know my name. Later, I’d find that extremely amusing.

I kept smoking cigarettes without others around me to look. Trying to hide that addition I thought was making me weak. I still hadn’t touch a cigar, those were noble. Those were calming and rewarding.

Cigarettes were my fast way to the grave.

\--

When I was twenty-two, I met who later would be known as Major Zero. He was almost in his 50s and had a scar on his left eye.

I would call him Major “O”.

The Boss would call him David.

He was an old friend of hers and I had heard about him; only seeing him briefly, when I was sixteen or seventeen, but I had never spoken to the man in person.

I was in London, in his office, sitting on a chair near his desk. The Boss had brought me along to witness some diplomatic conference and learn something about being diplomatic, but she wasn’t there at the moment. She left me in his "care" as if I had to be babysat, but I got used to that, too. Zero waltzed in the room and I stood up to salute.

“Stand easy.” He moved a hand just briefly, passing by to go pick up a kettle. He had a stove in his office, just to make tea.

“Jack,” he said, picking up a box, his back to me, “do you like tea?”

I relaxed my stance,

“I don’t drink much of it.”

He stopped with a spoon in mid-air.

“A pity.” He resumed his tea making and placed the kettle on the stove, before turning to me and spreading a hand towards the chair, inviting me to sit down yet again.

“How old are you, Jack? Thirty, thirty-one?”

“I’m twenty-two, sir.” I replied with my raspy voice. The man stared at me right in the face, with a small hint of bewilderment in his expression, before sitting down at his desk.

“I see. Well, I’m sorry. I thought you were way older.” I followed his example and sat back on the chair, but he seemed to have a lot to say.

“You aren’t much of a talker, are you.” He let out a laugh, “Just like her.”

I shrugged a little. It had never been a problem. I reply when it’s necessary, if there’s no reason behind chit-chats, I just find myself pretty uncomfortable. I would understand later, the importance of talking to people, companions, partners. Words can kill, afterall.

 “I apologise.”

“There’s nothing you should apologise for.” He opened a drawer and takes out a small metal box, much like the chocolate box The Boss still had lingering in her office, and placed it in front of me.

“Be my guest, have some.”

Then, the kettle screamed its disapproval until the major took care of it. When he got back with two teacups, I had already eaten four chocolate balls and I didn’t even realise it.

The taste just made me want to cry, so I kept eating them.

It was painful.

“Were you hungry?” he said rather cheerfully and I cleared my throat, flushing my embarrassment just a little. “It’s quite all right, you can eat them all if you want.”

I tasted the warm tea, I thought it was bland. Food in general had become rather bland; not that I couldn't taste it or I couldn’t understand when something was disgusting, but smell usually plays a big role in tasting.

Zero questioned me on whether or not I liked _spies_. He went on a tangent about spies dealing with the USSR and the US, walking a thin line between American fire and the communist bombs. Then he moved on describing _fictional_ spies, with their intriguing plotlines and whatnot.

It was boring.

But in a way, the major was pleasant to talk with. He wasn’t forcing me to be active in the conversation, I could just listen to him, even though he’d get touchy on many subjects.

When our tea was long gone, The Boss knocked on the wooden door. She got in immediately, wearing a red scarf and a black trench coat over her uniform.

“Is it cold?” Zero asked, as she slowly got rid those cumbersome clothes.

“Rather, yes.”

She acknowledged me with a kind look, yet no smile on her face.

“Hi, Jack.”

I whispered back an _hello_ , as she got closer to the desk, noticing the empty metal box lying on the surface, between the two teacups.

“What did you give him?” She demanded, frowning.

“Nothing, it was just chocolate and tea.”

She looked directly at me and it made me feel as if I was in an interrogation room.

“How many did you eat?”

I fidgeted a little, glancing over to the other man, who just made a concerned frown.

“All.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

She slapped the back of my head without hesitation and I made a clear _ouch_ sound.  
“What did I do?” I complained aloud, holding the hit part with my right hand.

“I told you several times to stop eating outside meals. I don’t need you to get more weight on.”

She crossed her arms and shot an angry stare at the major, who was now wearing an amused smile.

“Stop laughing or you’re next.”

\--

There is a breaking point in every person’s life. There could be only one, or multiple, depending on their behaviour and their lifestyle.

Sometimes, it only takes one,

One single thing

To shatter your very being.

You never recover.

Until something worse happens.

Until something worse drags you down. Deep, deep down. And you live off with the scraps of what is left of yourself. You look at yourself and say, this is the surviving stain of what I was. A corpse.

Until something worse fuels you with everything you hate about yourself, and you yield to it. You succumb.

You think, this is good. This is what she wanted. This is what she wanted from me. This is what I need to do.

There are just

Flames.

\--

I am a man. I am a killing machine. I was raised to become the greatest soldier to ever walk on this Earth.

I am The Boss' pupil.

She brought me up. She cared for me. She loved me.

I am a man.

This man woke up on June 12, 1959 and thought it was any other day. It was routine. He walked the corridors, ignoring the mumbling of other soldiers. He had breakfast, like always.

Then he met his friend, and the friend told him The Boss was leaving.

_Didn’t you know?_

_Didn’t she tell you?_

_Didn’t she?_

The man didn’t understand. Leaving for where, with whom. Why. He rushed to her office and the door was locked, her name and number gone from the label on the door.

_Didn’t she_

_Didn’t she tell you_

_Did_

_Didn’t she tell you?_

The man was confused and panicked. He ran desperately to the front of the base, asking, shouting at the secretaries to know where The Boss was. He had other soldiers telling him to calm down and one of the women at the desk was clearly frightened. He looked as if he was possessed, they said.

She was embarking in a chopper.

_Oh, Jack,_

_That’s sweet._

_Oh, Jack._

The man bumped into other soldiers, trying to reach the place in time. Running as if he was escaping the enemy, escaping from his very own life.

_Boss, do you care about me?_

_Boss?_

_Boss?_

He smashed his hands on the metal of the fence.

The man shouted, as loud as he could, over the sound of the chopper. He shouted so loud he was going to throw up.

She stopped her slow walk on the paved path of the landing zone. She didn't turn.

The man is crying.

He hasn’t cried in years.

_Boss, can I come back, in a while?_

_Boss?_

_Jack,_

_You need to get used to it._

He is whaling, his hands clasping against the fence. She resumes her walk. _Boss_ , he screams, _Boss, don’t leave me. Boss, what am I going to do?_

_Why didn’t you tell me, Boss?_

_Please!_

_Please!_

_Boss!_

She gets on the chopper and knees down to close the door, as the man runs along the fence, trying to find an entrance, something. Somewhere. He is scared, terrified. He stops again and she looks at him.

Her face is stone cold, like always, but her eyes are melancholic. A mystery.

She closes the chopper’s door and the man keeps shouting his _please_ , his _no_ , until he is on his knees, too, and his world is shattered.

_I_

_I trusted you_

_I_

_I want to see you again_

_Why did you do this?_

_Boss?_

_Boss?_

\--

It’s been five years, seventy-two days and eighteen hours since he last saw her.

 

1964


End file.
